


(you need a) big god

by elicitillicit



Series: Volte Face [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco Malfoy Needs a Hug, F/M, Incredibly AU, hermione has an EPIPHANY, hermione has so much internal dialogue tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 14:55:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18209828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elicitillicit/pseuds/elicitillicit
Summary: Admittedly, Hermione’s usual interactions with Slytherins are with Malfoy, Parkinson, the Thickheaded Thugs and Bulstrode, so it’s not like she sees how any of them behave in normal social settings (i.e. when they aren't being racist bigots). But – she registers, absently, that this is the first time that she’s seen a Slytherin laugh, pure and easy.When she picks at this scene later, when she’s savouring everything about the night like a sherbet lemon nestled in her cheek, she wonders a little why she’s never thought of Slytherins knowing joy the same way she does.OR:Hermione notes the way the world shifts after Slytherin Cassius Warrington is the spare in that graveyard.Part 2 of the Volte Face series.





	(you need a) big god

**Author's Note:**

> Chunks of Dumbledore's monologue at the end are lifted from his leaving speech in GOF. The chapter title is that of the ever-luminescent Florence Welch's ballad, Big God.

_sometimes I think it's gettin' better_  
_and then it gets much worse_  
_is it just part of the process?_  
_well, jesus christ, it hurts_

_\- Big God, by Florence + the Machine_

.

.

.

Hermione doesn’t remember how she’d learned Cassius Warrington’s name. It may have been during the flurry of conversation around the Goblet of Fire – _that big bloke from Slytherin who looks like a sloth_ – or earlier, during one of the Quidditch matches that all tended to blend together after a while – _size rather than skill_.

Warrington’s corpse lies, huge and broken, on the remains of the Quidditch pitch. Hermione starts shoving people aside, hand closed tight around Ron’s wrist, as they fight their way to Harry. 

A yard away, and she hears Parkinson screaming bloody murder before the crowd thins a little and she can register a blonde girl, sunk to her knees at Parkinson’s feet, blank and limp and staring at the unmoving mass that is Cassius Warrington.

 _Thank god that’s not me_ , she can’t help but think, and then Warrington’s body is levitated off the ground, to be moved away, to be placed elsewhere. To be put aside like a piece of furniture, while Harry lifts his glasses with shaking fingers, and swipes a filthy arm over his eyes.

Harry is crying, and he hadn’t even liked the boy.

They’re jostled by a gaggle of Tournament staff, and when the bodies clear, Harry is gone. Cassius’s body remains, arrested in its journey back to the castle by a woman who can only be his mother, who has reached up to grasp at his arm and refuses to relinquish it.

 _Wingardium leviosa_ , Hermione’s brain supplies. They had started off learning how to lift feathers. Then a troll’s club, in a damp, fluorescent bathroom, years and years ago.

Another man steps in to pry the woman away from Warrington and add his own shaking wand to the efforts of the two ministry men struggling under Warrington’s dead weight.

 _Wingardium leviosa_ , he mouths. Warrington rises a fraction of an inch higher, and the party continues on towards the castle.

 

.

.

.

 

 _Greengrass_ , she hears Parvati whisper to Lavender over breakfast the next morning. The sun is too bright but _Harry is alive_ and the school is _rife_ with gossip – including speculation on whether _Greengrass – always a little fragile, that one – d’you reckon she’s finally snapped?_  

Hermione blinks, and glances over at Ron, who’s aggressively inhaling his breakfast as quickly as he can so that he can get to Harry’s bedside as rapidly as he can. Across them, the Slytherin table is almost empty, and barely anybody is eating. Almost none of the upper year Slytherins are present. Adrian Pucey is blubbering openly into his oatmeal.

 _\- Besotted with him, I can’t imagine dating_ Warrington _, he and Flint really might be part troll_ -

Up on the dais, Dumbledore clears his throat and taps his goblet of pumpkin juice politely with his butter knife.

 _Honestly, she could probably do better… oh_ hush –

“As you are likely aware, Harry Potter is currently convalescing in the Hospital Wing. I kindly request that you leave him to recover from his recent ordeal, and refrain from bludgeoning him with queries regarding the events of the Third Task. Thank you.”

There is a brief pause before the chatter around the Great Hall resumes. About half of the Slytherins who had made it to breakfast shove away from their table and leave, bitter and grieved. Hermione watches them go. Pucey’s gait is unsteady, and one of the younger girls – Cassidy Vanity, she thinks – flat-out runs from the Hall, sobbing.

_How many lives d’you reckon Harry’s got left? Blimey, he just took one of Warrington’s, didn’t he?_

“ _Stop it_ ,” Hermione snaps, and Lavender and Parvati, who’d been sitting a couple of seats down, who hadn’t realised Hermione had been eavesdropping, flinch.

Ron rests a hesitant palm on her back. “Hermione?”

Hermione lets a breath. “He was still one of us. Warrington. He was one of us and he died.”

Seamus snorts. “He was a _Slytherin_. He’d have you expelled and your wand snapped quicker than a niffler can nick a necklace.”

This is true, and still – Hermione thinks of him, and how he will be remembered as a death and not a person. Sure, from what she’d heard, he’d been thuggish, and mean, and _cruel_ , but she remembers blonde hair and a blank face. A weeping mother. A man, lifting the corpse of his teenaged son into the spring air.

She settles on the truth. “He was a boy. And he died.”

Parvati bristles – _look, Hermione,_ we’re _the ones who’ve got your back here –_ but, surprisingly, it’s Lavender who lays her fingers over her wrist.

“I suppose you’re right. Everybody is somebody’s child.”

Hermione bites her lip. For all that she thinks that Lavender is vain, and silly, and a ditz, sometimes she forgets that Lavender also knows compassion.

Even Seamus grows quiet. Hermione pushes her plate away, and nods at Ron.

“Let’s go see Harry.”

 

.

.

.

 

A memory:

It is the Yule Ball, and Hermione is _giddy_ about going on her first _actual date_. She doesn’t _actually_ know how to dance, but McGonagall had been religious about ensuring that all Gryffindors attended at least _one_ dance class, and so she knows the basic steps to a box waltz.

And then, while she’s floating in Viktor’s arms, part of her notes that Warrington is gliding fluidly across the dance floor with a surprising amount of grace for someone of his size, and that he is holding his date – a blonde waif of a thing whom Hermione _thinks_ is in her year – more lightly than Ron handles his Chudley Cannons figurines.

He spins her, and she laughs, bright and delighted, before twisting her body back to him, fitting herself snugly under his chin.

Admittedly, Hermione’s usual interactions with Slytherins are with Malfoy, Parkinson, the Thickheaded Thugs and Bulstrode, so it’s not like she sees how any of them behave in normal social settings (i.e. when they aren't being racist bigots). But – she registers, absently, that this is the first time that she’s seen a Slytherin laugh, pure and easy.

When she picks at this scene later, when she’s savouring _everything_ about the night like a sherbet lemon nestled into her cheek, she wonders a little why she’s never thought of Slytherins knowing joy the same way she does.

The days move on, and she forgets about that moment of introspection until she sees the girl again – a wisp of green and black and pale blonde hair, kneeling in the grass, weak with shock.

She wonders if the girl will ever laugh like she used to, before.

 

.

.

.

 

There had apparently been a small memorial for Warrington a couple of days after his death, but as a whole, it couldn’t be said that the rest of the school actually mourned him. He was a Slytherin, and not a particularly liberal one, at that.

As such, when Hermione walks into the Great Hall flanked by Harry and Ron for the Leaving Feast, she’s a little surprised to see that black banners have been hung in place behind the staff table, where the winning House’s colours usually hung.

There’s quite a bit of confused murmuring about it, but no one exactly wants to voice what everyone else is thinking and ask _why do we care about Cassius Warrington’s death when no one outside Slytherin liked him, anyways_?

The Slytherins, on their part, barely seem to notice the banners. From what Hermione can see, they’re either glaring stonily at their goblets, deep in agitated conversation with their friends, or visibly distraught. It doesn’t appear that any of them have reached the stage of acceptance of their housemate’s death. Hermione doesn’t expect that they would – at least, not so soon. Daphne Greengrass is resting her head on Pansy Parkinson’s shoulder, while a smaller girl presses close up to her on her other side. Even from where she sits, Hermione can see the prominence of Greengrass’s cheekbones, and the grey, sickly pallor of her skin.

Dumbledore stands, and the hall falls abruptly silent.

“The end,” says he, “of another year.”

He pauses – probably for dramatic effect, because Hermione doesn’t think that he’s one to _wing_ this particular speech. His gaze falls on the Slytherin table, and some of them look defiantly back at him. Greengrass stirs, and slowly opens her eyes, doing a sweep of the hall – staring down all the stony-faced students who dare to think that her boyfriend should have died for being an unpleasant person.

She knows it. They all know it.

“There is much that I would like to say to you all tonight,” says Dumbledore, “but I must first acknowledge the loss of a gentleman-” (Lee Jordan scoffs) “- who should be sitting here, enjoying our Feast with us. I would like you all, please, to stand, and raise your glasses, to Cassius Warrington.”

When Hermione was very young, her grandfather, who’d lived through both world wars and fought in the second, told her this: never give a command that you aren’t sure will be followed.

It is therefore entirely unsurprising that only a little around two thirds of the school stands for the toast – even a fair number of Slytherins remain seated, although those who do still seem to be a little overcome. Harry stands, and so she stands with him, but it is clear that any Gryffindor who has deigned to pay Warrington this last gesture of respect is doing it solely out of social obligation. 

Dumbledore, when he speaks again, looks unbearably sad.

“I will not pretend to lay false virtues unto Cassius Warrington. One of the most difficult but important things to do when we have lost someone is to remember them as they _were_ , not as a caricature of their best, or _worst_ , qualities. And Cassius, like all of us, was flawed. However, he did conduct himself with honour during the Triwizard Tournament, and he remained, ever determined, to reach for the very pinnacle of excellence – for his House, and for this school. His death has affected you all, whether you knew him well or not. I think you have the right, therefore, to know exactly how it came about.”

At the Slytherin table, Hermione sees Draco Malfoy, already pinched and pale, turn even paler.

“Cassius Warrington was murdered by Lord Voldemort.”

A wave of frantic murmuring sweeps the Great Hall, but Hermione notes that nobody at the Slytherin table even flinches. _They know_ , she realises. _They already know_.

“The Ministry of Magic does not wish me to tell you this. It is possible that some of your parents will be horrified that I have done so – either because they will not believe that Lord Voldemort has returned, or because they think I should not tell you so, young as you are. It is my belief, however, that the truth is generally preferable to lies, and that any attempt to pretend that Cassius died as the result of an accident, or some sort of blunder of his own, is an insult to his memory.”   

Malfoy darts a wary glance over to Greengrass. Parkinson, who’s inserted herself between the two, levels him with a look that can only be described as unadulterated rage.

That’s an interesting turn of events, Hermione muses, but then Dumbledore is speaking again, so she files the thought away to consider later.

“There is somebody else who must be mentioned in connection with Cassius’s death. I am talking, of course, about Harry Potter. Harry Potter managed to escape Lord Voldemort. He risked his own life to return Cassius’s body to Hogwarts. He showed, in every respect, the sort of bravery that few wizards have ever shown in facing Lord Voldemort, and for this, I honour him.”

Dumbledore raises his goblet towards Harry, and while nearly everyone in the Great Hall follows suit, almost none of the Slytherins do. But, Hermione perceives, it doesn’t seem to be because of any underlying hatred towards _Harry_. The Slytherins are preoccupied amongst _themselves_ , because it looks like a very subtle, cold civil war appears to be on the verge of breaking out.

It is far too crude to paint a line straight down the middle, and she doesn’t know _all_ of the Slytherin faces, but it is clear that Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, the Carrow twins and Nott are on one side, while Pucey, Greengrass, Parkinson and Davies are on the other.

 _Death Eaters_. _Some Slytherins have parents who were in that graveyard – who watched their master murder their children’s friend, and did nothing._

The horror of it hits her like a beater’s bat to the skull, and she loses Dumbledore’s next few words in the wake of it.

“Some of you, in this Hall, have already suffered directly at the hands of Lord Voldemort. Many of your families have been torn asunder. A week ago, a student was taken from our midst. Remember Cassius. Remember, if the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right, and what is easy, remember what happened to a boy who was _one of us_ , because he strayed across the path of Lord Voldemort. Remember Cassius Warrington.”

Greengrass’s face crumples, while Malfoy runs an agitated hand through his hair. Belatedly, Hermione remembers that Warrington had been Malfoy’s quidditch teammate. They’d trained together, worked together, and played together.

Lucius Malfoy had _definitely_ been in the graveyard.

The feast begins. Malfoy stands, violently jostling both Crabbe and Goyle, and flees the Great Hall.

**Author's Note:**

> Headcanon: Hermione Granger has a MIND PALACE. 
> 
> Come find me on tumblr (if anyone still uses tumblr) at pureblxxds for anything HP related, or at elicitillicit, where I am moving through my own narrative.


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